The Female of the Species
by MissDillyDilly
Summary: As Quinn Shelby completes her assessment of his lab, Mac remembers a previous, less professional, liaison.
1. Chapter 1

**The Female of the Species**

**Summary**: As Quinn Shelby completes her assessment of his lab, Mac remembers a previous, less professional, liaison.

**Disclaimers**: I have made no money from writing this story. I do not own anything connected with any of the CSI franchises, which I assume belong to CBS and its cohorts. I would quite like to borrow Gary Sinise, however… just for a day?

**A/N**: Set during the Season 4 episode "Like Water for Murder". Thanks to JillSwinburne for Dan and other comments.

* * *

_April 2008_

"I still have a thing for you." The redhead leaned forward and looked at Mac Taylor intently, waiting for a reply. "Why didn't you ever call me?"

Mac looked away. Ten years, and still she couldn't let go. Just when he thought he'd moved on, forgiven himself as his wife had forgiven him long ago, Quinn Shelby would appear from nowhere and bring the memories flooding back. And they were powerful, arousing memories: which was one reason he didn't want to remember them.

Because, along with the pleasure they brought, they also brought the reminder that one night, nearly ten years ago, he had betrayed his wife.

He had to reply: he owed her that. "Quinn, I was married."

He thought he saw a smile. "It was just a kiss, Mac. I know – a moment of weakness."

"I loved my wife," he said simply, hoping that the statement would shame her into silence. He might as well have hoped for the rain to stop falling.

"Don't I know it!" she snapped, and he heard bitterness in her voice. "Every day I worked alongside you, you never let me forget that."

He leaned forward: she wasn't being fair. His actions had arisen directly from her own, and she had no-one but herself to blame. "It wasn't my intention to make things difficult," he said. But subtlety didn't work for someone who wouldn't take no for an answer, and there were occasions when he had not been subtle.

Mac was no fool, and he couldn't deny that, for a few moments, their liaison had been exciting – more than exciting. Downright dangerous.

His mind spun back to a cold, dark day in October, when Claire was alive and the world was young and he was happy.

Well, not so much happy, not on that day…

* * *

_October 1998_

"Mac? What the hell are you doing here? Don't you have a home to go to?" Robert Penfold looked at his colleague in exasperation.

Mac raised his head from his microscope, a weary expression on his face. "I could ask you the same thing, Bob," he said mildly.

"I run the place – well, for the next two months, at least. I'm divorced, I don't have a dog or a cat or a rabbit, and it's my job to be here at all hours. It's not yours – you've got a life outside this place – a wife waiting for you."

Mac sighed. "Not at the moment I don't," he muttered, more under his breath than in reply to Penfold's comment.

But his boss heard his words and immediately crossed to his side. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice softer now. "Is everything OK?"

"Yeah – yeah, I guess so." He sighed and replaced the sample on the bench. "Claire's mother broke her leg a couple months ago, and Claire and Dan have been taking it in turns to look after her now she's back home. Dan did weeks one to three, Claire's doing four to six."

"Dan…?"

"Claire's brother."

"Ah. How long's she been away?"

"Nearly a month." Mac's voice was ominous and dour.

"Call me pedantic," Penfold said drily, "but a month is longer than three weeks. Unless you're on Venus or somewhere."

"Her mother doesn't want her to come home," Mac replied. "What can she do? She says she needs her there – she can't just leave, can she? Dan's got to work, and she won't pay for carers. Not that she can't afford them…"

"So you're burning the candle at all three ends because you don't like an empty apartment?" Mac looked sheepish. "Come on – let's go and have a beer. No – no objections. You'll be bleary and useless in the morning, but I wouldn't mind an hour of good company. You don't want Quinn outshining you, do you, hmm?"

Mac grimaced. Quinn Shelby – like him, a Detective Grade 2, like him up for promotion when Penfold left – was alternately a pain and an inspiration, though more often the former than the latter: she was brash and noisy, but a gifted CSI. She was also not above taking credit for others' hard work, as he'd found out once to his cost – but she never passed the buck, never shrugged off her errors, and never indulged in office politics, so she wasn't all bad.

"Huh," he said. But he secured his work, removed his gloves and lab coat, and followed Penfold out. It would be good to forget his loneliness for a while.

* * *

"She says she can't manage alone!" Claire's voice hissed down the phone, and Mac guessed she didn't want to be overheard.

"Claire, it's nearly three months now – surely she's walking by this time? You've been there five weeks – I'm going nuts here on my own. You want me to come over there?"

"God – no," Claire replied. "I don't know what she'd do. It's just – I went out with a couple of girlfriends the day before yesterday – just for a rest – and when I came back the place was in uproar. Dirty dishes, clothes on the floor, the cats hadn't been fed, post not taken in – Mac, it was a nightmare."

"So she managed to dress and feed herself," Mac said drily, "just not clear up afterwards?"

"Don't – please don't do this. It's not fair." He could hear the tension in his wife's voice, and cursed his mother-in-law for a selfish harridan. She'd never liked him, wanting her daughter to marry a doctor or a lawyer, not a Marine, and she'd thrown every obstacle known to man – and, Mac privately thought, a few known only to the devil – in their way. When she'd realised they would marry in spite of her, she had demanded they live in Chicago: and they had, for a while. But life there had become impossible, and their escape to New York when Mac left the service was a brilliant and famous victory.

Now, it seemed, she was trying to turn the clock back, pressuring Claire and pulling them apart.

"You're my wife," he said. "You're supposed to be with me. I want to understand Claire – I do – but it can't go on much longer. You'll have to arrange for some care – if you think she really needs it – or for Dan to come back. Or you'll just have to walk away and let her sink or swim."

"Mac… Look, I'll broach the subject this evening, OK? Don't you think I want to be back home? Don't you think I want to be with you? I miss you – I miss all of you." Her emphasis was unmistakeable, and he understood the mischievous intent even in the midst of her seriousness.

"Mmm – I miss all of you, too," he murmured, and his mind conjured pictures of Claire, naked and happy and with him in New York instead of seven hundred miles away in Chicago. He grinned. "You want to know how much I miss you? What do you – " There was a sharp ping on the line, and he stopped. "Claire? You there?"

There was a pause before Claire replied, and when she did her voice was tight and drawn. "Sorry Mac – we had an audience."

"What?"

"It is Mom's phone."

"Bloody hell!" He was furious: how dare she listen to her daughter's private phone calls! How dare she listen to his! "Listen – you get something sorted, OK?"

"OK." He could tell she was nearly in tears.

"Hey – hey, I'm sorry. I love you, kitten – don't forget that. Always. I just – oh God, I just want you back here, with me. I hate being without you."

"I know – me too. I will do something – promise."

They spoke for a few more moments, exchanging sweet, silly words that mean nothing and everything and which are the visible frosting on a rich and invisible relationship. Alone again, Mac stared into the dark: he felt wretched and alone, utterly trapped by this appalling woman who had given birth to his beautiful wife. He ached to feel her lips on his, her arms around him, her breath in his hair, her hands on his body…

He shook himself, buried his head in the cold, unwelcoming pillow, and tried to sleep.

* * *

He was tired the following day: lack of sleep and company were beginning to take their toll. His conversation with Penfold weighed on him: it seemed, now that his attention had been drawn to her as a possible rival for the position of head of the lab, that Quinn was inescapable. He found it deeply irritating, and tried to shake her off, but when he went down to autopsy, suddenly she would be there; if he walked towards DNA, she would catch him up with some minor query; if he went to get a coffee, she was pouring juice and looking as if she wanted a chat.

In the end, he gave in. "Quinn," he said during their third meeting in the kitchen, "how're you doing?"

"I'm good," she said through a muffin. Speaking while eating was a habit he deplored, but he couldn't be bothered to remonstrate. "You?"

"Tired," he said. He paused: it would be nice to have someone to talk to, and Quinn seemed ready to listen, but was it wise to share his troubles just because he felt lonely? If Claire had been there… If Claire had been there, he reminded himself, he wouldn't have any troubles. Claire swept his life clean, tending his horizons and washing all his problems till they melted away. Oh God – how he missed her!

Whether it was the lack of sleep, or the thought of his beautiful, absent wife, he lost control for a second, and his breath became ragged and uneven. At once, Quinn was at his side: she put an arm around his shoulders – no more – but he was surprised at how much comfort he derived from the simple human contact. She stood with him, saying nothing, until he was himself again, and he was grateful: perhaps, he thought, he'd misjudged her, and she wasn't so predatory after all.

"Sorry," he mumbled. He was embarrassed, but it didn't feel wrong, being held by someone other than his wife. It was only a hug, after all…

"Hey – that's OK," she said softly. "It's tough, being alone."

"Hmm?"

"Claire being away – it must be tough."

"How did you…?" She smiled. "It's obvious, Mac – starched shirts, immaculate ties, never mind the double shifts and fridge diving. You're having someone do your washing and ironing, and not eating properly. Am I right?"

He moved from under her embrace, and smiled slightly in return. "Not entirely. I was a Marine, Quinn – I do my own laundry." But he found the idea that she thought he couldn't cope amusing, and when they passed and repassed in the corridors during the day, did not fail to offer a look, a smile, or a word.

It occurred to him that she was probing, trying to find a weakness to exploit in their battle for promotion: but he dismissed the notion as ridiculous and uncharitable. She knew, as well as he, that they'd be judged on their work, and Penfold was quite capable of seeing their merits and faults without having anyone point them out for him.

She was just trying to be friendly, that was all.

* * *

"Another all-nighter?" Penfold stood in the doorway to what Mac laughingly called his office – a small cubby-hole with a desk, an in tray and some photos – and looked stern.

"No – just finishing up," Mac replied. "Good job on the Queens case – never thought of the son."

Penfold grinned. "Give Shelby credit – she followed the evidence even though it contradicted what everyone was saying. She learnt that from you. Stubborn, both of you – good trait for a CSI."

Mac turned. "When you going to tell us?"

"Tell you what, Mac?"

The younger man sighed. "I hate office politics. I don't like the game – I don't play the game – and I see everyone around me manoeuvring for position like – like vultures before a train crash. It leaves me feeling dirty."

"You'll have to play one day, Mac"

"Yeah – well not any time soon."

"Shelby plays like a pro."

Mac suddenly felt angry. "Bob, if I can't get this job on merit, I don't want it at all. I became a Marine to do good, save lives – belong to something worthwhile. I became a CSI for the same reason – if I wanted to run for Congress, I wouldn't be standing here surrounded by saliva and blood and banged-up bullets and wondering what perversion of humanity I'd be unravelling tomorrow. I'd earn a lot more, too."

"Woah!" Penfold held up his hands. "Chill out, Mac!"

"Sorry – I just feel strongly, that's all."

"I know," Penfold replied. "I know. And there's no-one I'd rather hand my baby to." Mac blinked, but Penfold had clearly said all he was going to say. "Go on – home now. Finish what you're working on and get out of here."

"OK."

But Mac's attention was caught by another file and, as a wiser man might have foreseen, he was still working several hours later, when a knock at the 'door' – actually a wood and canvas screen to prevent passing distractions from becoming overwhelming – brought him back to the real world and revealed Quinn Shelby, coat in hand, eyebrows raised in admonition.

"You still here, Mac?"

"Evidently."

"Didn't I hear Bob tell you to go home?"

He shrugged. "So?"

"Come on – we can share a cab. Or you can walk me – it's a fine evening."

"Quinn, I've got – "

" – Nothing that can't wait till tomorrow. It's files, paperwork – not degrading samples. You're not a one-man army, Mac – leave it now for God's sake and get some sleep."

"Sleep? What's that?"

She came towards him. "A better argument for quitting I never heard. Come on – put it down and leave!"

He sighed. If only he was going home to Claire… He'd be tucked up in bed – he checked his watch and saw that it was gone midnight – yes, tucked up in bed, feeling her breathing against his skin, perhaps after making love, perhaps not, but with someone who cared for him more than life right beside him. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. It was easier to acquiesce than argue. "OK," he said.

They walked together to the elevator, Quinn hovering just a little too near for comfort. Or not quite near enough: he found himself thinking of the feel of her arm around his shoulders, and how heavy and warm it had been. Other than the cold flesh of the dead, and two small boys who had skateboarded into him a few days before, no-one had touched him for weeks. He hadn't realised how much he would miss the simple physical contact of another person. He remembered how he had shied away from the army brothels when so many of his friends hung out there – how he wondered why on earth they would do such a thing, when they had wives and girlfriends waiting at home – but now, as he stood side by side with Quinn in the elevator, so close to another human being and yet so alone, he caught a glimpse of understanding. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so quick to condemn…

Quinn had been right: the night was clear and quiet, with a faint autumnal nip in the air. He smelt the first hints of the thick, dank smells of the wilting of the year: they were comforting, surrounding his senses like a blanket.

"So," Quinn said, crashing into his reverie. "Cab or walk?"

A walk would take longer. Perhaps another whole hour before he had to face that cold, empty bed. "Walk," he said.

They didn't say much: they were very different people, and casual conversation did not come easily. Quinn's apartment was some forty-five minutes from the lab, and once they got into their stride Mac enjoyed the sights and sounds of night-time Manhattan. It certainly was a city that never slept, but to walk along the sidewalks and not have to dodge others – to cross roads when the 'Don't Walk' sign was showing, relying on eyes and ears alone – to feel the space around him rather than the throb of human flesh – it was almost erotic in its strangeness and intensity.

Gradually, their steps fell into a rhythm, beating a regular tattoo on the hard, clean pavements. Their strides matched each other, and it seemed perfectly natural when Quinn slipped her arm through Mac's: it was merely companionable, the sort of thing inevitable on a night-time walk being taken by friends.

When they finally reached her apartment building – a rather nice development near to the heart of things but pleasantly off the beaten track – Mac made to move away. He was very tired, in body as well as mind, and dared to hope that their long walk might afford him a few hours of dreamless sleep before his next shift.

But Quinn clearly had other ideas, and contrived to look wistful and accusing at the same time. "Come on up for a coffee, Mac, at least!"

"Do you know what time it is?"

"Yes – it's thirteen minutes to one. So?"

"We've both had a long day."

She smiled. "Well, you have – but your next shift's the late one, yes? So you've got till four tomorrow afternoon – time, I think, for one drink!"

"This afternoon," he murmured.

"Whatever. Come on, Mac – you can't walk me home and abandon me on the doorstep!"

Mac thought that he very well could, but – as so often with Quinn and her overbearing enthusiasm – he gave in. "OK," he sighed. "Just a coffee."

She grinned: a dispassionate onlooker might have seen the gleam of the hunter in her eye, but Mac was neither, and didn't.

* * *

"How d'you like your coffee?"

Mac smiled in mild annoyance: he'd worked with Quinn for six years, and still she couldn't remember. The woman who would undoubtedly get promoted to Grade 2 when either he or Quinn took the big chair, Stella Bonasera, had learnt in her first week.

"Black, two sugars," he called, discarding his jacket and sinking into one of Quinn's massive easy chairs. They really were the height of luxury, to the point of almost consciously wrapping themselves around him. God, he thought as he stretched his weary legs and rested his head against the deeply padded back – this was the life.

He was half asleep when Quinn tapped him on the shoulder. Leaning over the back of the chair, she carefully set the mug by his side before placing her hands gently on his shoulders and massaging the day away. He tensed at first and then, realising what she was doing, relaxed into her expert fingers, sighing in contentment and beginning to drift slightly. Oh, he needed this…

Too soon, she stopped, leaving him temporarily cold and bereft.

"OK?" she asked softly, settling herself into another chair.

"Mmm." He flexed his shoulders. "That was good."

She watched him drink his coffee: it was hot and strong and not at all like the coffee he made himself at home. He sank further into his chair, as if willing it to swallow him whole.

Quinn kept the conversation going almost single-handedly for a while, but when she turned to past cases he began to contribute, and soon they were reminding each other of suspects, procedures and case-breaks that it would have been against protocol – not to mention the law – to share with anyone else. Mac laughed, and felt it was too long since he had been this content. He was beginning to feel slightly blurred around the edges, and wondered if Quinn had put something stronger in his mug than coffee. He picked it up and waved it at her.

"More?" she asked.

What the hell, Mac thought. "Yeah – please."

She rose from her seat, took the mug, and then seemed surprised when he caught her free hand. "Mac?"

"Thanks, Quinn."

She returned the pressure. "No problem."

More conversation, remembrances and laughter ensued, but at last Mac glanced at his watch. "Quinn," he said slowly, "it's a quarter after three. I've got to get home." Ignoring her protests, he hauled himself to his feet, blinked, and made for the door.

Then her hand was on his arm. "Mac, look at you! You're in no fit state to go anywhere – you're exhausted! Stay here – there's plenty of room."

He shook his head. "No – thanks, but I'll be getting back." He paused, not wanting to offend her. "It's been great, Quinn – thanks. It's been good to have some company."

"It doesn't have to end, Mac," she said quietly. "You don't have to go." She was very close to him: he could smell the scent of her hair, and realised that all he had to do was put out a hand to touch her, and she would melt.

The thought of holding someone was intoxicating: to feel that warmth beneath him, around him, responding to him… He took Quinn's hand. "I really have to go."

But they both knew he was fighting a losing battle: his brain felt foggy, and all his nerves were on fire, tingling with anticipation and nearness. It was just a hug, after all… Pulling her to him, he held her close, aware with his whole being of the heat of her against his skin, of the way her arms folded him up into their embrace, of how she gently moved against him, arousing him in ways which he could not – and did not wish to – ignore.

He wasn't quite sure how it happened. One moment she was holding him: the next she was kissing him passionately, deeply, with abandon and without reserve. She pulled him into the hunger of her kiss as surely as headlights mesmerise a rabbit; she coaxed the life and the will out of him and he, flesh and blood and desperately lonely, willingly gave her what she craved.

Oh God! How he'd missed this! He wasn't a young man – he'd be thirty five next month – but he was still a man, and needed physical contact like he needed air to breathe. Thank God, he thought, she was back: he reached up a hand to grasp her thick curls, loving the feel of all that hair cascading through his fingers. It was the best aphrodisiac he knew.

His eager touch met something smooth, straight – and short. As the kiss deepened in intensity and urgency, and he felt her hands begin to caress other parts of him – parts that leapt up in eager, animal response – he searched again for that beautiful waterfall, and again found nothing.

He moaned – something was wrong. Where was the hair – the glorious, unmistakable hair? Breathing faster, distressed in the midst of his passion, he pulled away. Surely she hadn't had it cut in Chicago, not when she knew he loved it so much? Opening his eyes, he focussed on the woman in his arms, flushed and full-lipped with lust, her eyes half-lidded, her short hair tangled from his frustrated fingers, a small smile on her lips.

He stared at her stupidly. Quinn? What was – Quinn?

She spoke before he could. "Hey," she said. "Let's go somewhere more comfortable, hmm?"

A slap on the face; a dousing in freezing water; shrapnel in the gut. Mac had experienced all three, but none brought his world crashing down like seeing Quinn's face. Like hearing her voice – the seductive, siren, spider voice of sticky, irreversible temptation.

He almost screamed. "Quinn!"

"All me, Mac." She reached down and grabbed him. "And all you."

"God – what the hell are you playing at?" He pushed her away.

She looked pointedly at the front of his pants. "Like I said – not just me."

He flushed. He wasn't yet ashamed – that would come later – but he was angry. "You – I have a wife, Quinn! You know that!" He looked at her, so complacent in her almost victory, and then the realisation hit him: he was as much at fault as she. It takes two, he thought, and he had been only too willing. She might have lured him here, but he had stayed. He could have left at any time – he knew it – but he had stayed. The betrayal was his, not hers.

He felt his eyes sting with fiery, bitter tears. Claire – kissing Quinn – enjoying it, he couldn't deny – beautiful Claire, oh God, what had he done?

"It was just a kiss," she shrugged, and he saw the hunger in her eyes. He had to get out of there. She was cunning – he saw that now – and he was weak. He had to get away.

"And that's all it will ever be," he said harshly. "It meant nothing, Quinn – a momentary weakness. It never happened – and it'll never happen again. Whatever you want from me, it's not available. You – you caught me out. It won't happen again."

As he moved towards the door she caught at his sleeve. He shook her off, but she clung like a child in a storm. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I can't stop caring, Mac."

He felt a brief sympathy for her, then saw the hardness behind those eyes and realised that this was just another ploy to get him to surrender. "I'm sorry too, Quinn, but you're too late. Claire got there first."

She blinked at that, and he saw her brain processing possibilities. Didn't she ever give up? Then she smiled again. "Well… He who laughs last – you know what they say."

Mac stared at her, horrified. He knew he should leave without another word, not giving her the satisfaction of knowing she'd got to him: but he had to speak. "I love my wife," he said coldly. "I will always love my wife. I will always be married to Claire, no matter what happens – no matter what, you hear me? There's more to marriage than a ring and a name and words. And that's what you never understood, was it? All the little unseen things that knit people together in a bond that no-one can untie. It never worked for you, did it, Quinn?" He shook his head. "You never had any idea what love was about."

"And what will she say when she finds out?"

He went cold. "You wouldn't…"

She grimaced. "No, I wouldn't. I have some decency. But you will. You won't be able to help yourself. Even if you don't say the words, you'll tell her with every gesture, every look – it's too late, Mac. It's done."

He fled. Running from her web, down the stairs and into the dark, unwelcoming street, he put as much distance between them as fast as could without falling, as his feet pounded the silent sidewalks and the tears burnt their way down his twisted, howling face.

_To be concluded in chapter 2_


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Five hours later, Mac Taylor was high in the skies above O'Hare, watching the city of his birth rise up from the shroud of dawn and resolve into the disparate collection of people and buildings that he knew so well. His face was impassive, his demeanour calm: no-one on the early morning flight would have guessed that, behind the stern, passive façade, the man had been in turmoil.

He had walked for over an hour after stumbling out of Quinn's door. His phone had rung five times – each time, he knew, she would have tried to persuade him back, into her apartment, her life, her bed – and he hadn't answered. For brief moments during that hour, he didn't know who he hated most: the woman who had tried to seduce him, or the man who had almost given in to her. He felt dirty, ashamed, and scared.

Because, no matter what his conscience told him, about the fact that he'd stopped, that he knew he'd been wrong – no matter what he did now, or in the future, to put things right – the memory would always be there. And, he had to admit, it was a good memory: Quinn had wakened every sense within him, and sharpened his nerves to screaming point. A part of him didn't want to forget.

He felt sick. It was only a kiss – that's what she'd said – but it was the potential of the thing that terrified him. Claire had been away for less than two months – if he couldn't hold out against temptation for that long, what sort of a husband was he? What sort of a friend – what sort of a man?

Finally, footsore and almost lost, he sat down on a cold bench somewhere near Central Park. He desperately wanted to get away from this place – from Quinn, the lab, New York. He wanted to cleanse his mind and body and try to salvage something from the mess of the evening. But where could he go? She had his number, she knew where he lived – he wouldn't put it past her to turn up on his doorstep and try to coax and cajole her way in. He thought of her, lying in Claire's place in their bed: and then he was sick.

Mac did not do things by halves: he fought, worked and played hard, and a more even-tempered man might have seen the night's events for what they were, passing desires born of fatigue and loneliness, stopped before they became irreversible, and probably best consigned to the dustbin of 'things I'll pretend didn't happen for my peace of mind'. It never occurred to him that he was overreacting: if it had, he wouldn't have been the person he was, and neither Claire nor Quinn would have cared for him.

* * *

In the half-light of New York's false dawn, he became aware of someone standing beside him: looking up, he saw the unmistakable shoes of a beat cop, obviously wondering who this slumped, broken man was, and ready for trouble should there be any. The realisation that ordinary life was still going on around him roused Mac, and he got to his feet.

"Officer."

"You need any help, sir?"

Mac shook his head and, knowing he shouldn't but too bone-weary to care, flashed his badge. "Long night," he said.

The officer's attitude changed at once. "Can I get you a car? You, er – " he pointed to Mac's pants, stained and beginning to smell " – you could do with a change of clothes, Detective."

An idea catapulted into Mac's brain. "Yeah," he replied. "That would be great. La Guardia? I need to get to Chicago."

Once at the airport, he had – again without authority or constraint – used his badge to access a shower, new clothes, and a meal. All paid for, of course, but your average tourist or businessman would have been hard-pushed to find such luxuries at five in the morning. Demanding a seat on the first flight to Chicago, he found himself ushered into club class (at an economy price), sharing the cabin with passengers whose only concerns were business papers, presentations and barked phone conversations.

Mac could stretch, drink champagne, enjoy an unencumbered view and take his pick of more than a hundred movies, tv shows or local channels. He had never travelled in such style – and all of it was completely lost on him. The flight attendant was anxious to ensure his comfort but, once he had tersely informed her that he was a police officer on active duty, she left him alone.

Alone: to think, to contemplate what he had done, to decide what he had to do next.

It was not a happy flight.

* * *

"Mac?" Claire's voice sounded small and far away, as if she was still nearly half-way across the continent.

"Claire? Oh God – Claire! Are you OK?"

"I'm fine – just wanted to catch you before the day started."

Mac stood outside the airport: he had been about to hail a cab when his phone had rung and he'd dragged it out of his pocket, ready to refuse the call, and seen Claire's number flash on the screen. Her voice was like balm to his poor, troubled soul. "It's so good to hear you. How are things?"

"Same." She paused. "I – I tried to suggest coming home, like I said I would?"

"And?" He guessed it hadn't gone well.

"She said she'd come back to New York with me if she could stay in our apartment."

"What? No way, Claire – no way."

"I know, I know – she said she'd stay if you found a hotel."

Mac was speechless. His mother-in-law was not only trying to take his wife away – she was after his home as well? If it hadn't been happening to him, and if it hadn't resulted in last night's stupidity, he would have laughed. Instead, he swallowed. This had to stop. Now.

"You're coming home, Claire," he said. "Today."

There was a pause. "I – I think I'd better, Mac. I'm losing myself here."

The distress in her voice was clear. He knew now that his spur of the moment decision had been the right one. "Hang in there, kitten," he said. "I'll sort it."

"Mac."

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

"I love you too, Claire – more than life itself. Without you – " He paused. " – Without you there's nothing worth living for." What if he told her what he'd done and lost her? He felt the panic begin to rise.

"Mac," she remonstrated. "Don't say that."

"It's true."

"Life is always worth living – you know that."

"Not without you," he whispered.

She cut across him. "She's up! I got to go." The connection was abruptly broken, and Mac was alone again.

He loved her beauty, but he loved her determined optimism more – it complemented and softened his own taciturn view of the world. Younger than he in both years and experience, she was nevertheless wiser in many things, and he recognised her superiority in matters of life and how to live it. Perhaps she wouldn't care about what he'd done – perhaps she would just shrug it off?

He began to wonder, as the cab sped through the suburban streets, if telling her what had happened was for her – or for him. It would ease his conscience – but if it troubled her, he must not even consider it. His peace of mind would be a small price to pay for hers. And yet not to tell her would be a deception…

Mac had been brought up a Catholic, and he knew the value of confession. But unburdening oneself to a priest was quite different from telling someone you loved that you had betrayed them. The therapeutic value might be similar, but the cost to the listener was not. Could he do that to Claire? Should he not rather bear the burden alone?

Or would that be cheating on her all over again?

He still hadn't made up his mind when the cab drew up outside Claire's mother's house. A large, clapboard structure, it was strangely redolent of the old South, and almost out of place in the smart Chicago suburb. He felt his feet dragging as he walked up the path: his reluctance to encounter the woman for whose daughter he would never be good enough was absolute. Still, she would – presumably – be in bed or sitting down, unable to move, and the person whose wonderful face he would catch sight of as the door opened would be –

"Betty!" His astonishment was obvious: he had been expecting her to be virtually immobile, and here she was walking around the house without even a stick! What the hell was going on?

"You…" She looked him up and down as if he'd been a particularly nasty virus. "Why aren't you in New York?"

If she had been in any way pleasant – and it would have been a first – Mac would have held back. But her acidity, her disgust at his presence – and the fact that she was answering the door – stung him into action. "I'm delighted that you're back on your feet," he said coldly, stepping up and making her, by his sheer presence, move aside. "I've come to take my wife home."

"You can't do that!" the woman snapped. "I need her help!"

Mac looked her up and down in his turn. "You seem fine to me." He went inside the hallway. "Claire! It's Mac!"

He heard an exclamation, a scuffle – and Claire's face appeared from behind the kitchen door, flushed and strained from weeks of unappreciated toil. Her hair was piled roughly on top of her head, in a style Mac loved: but here it was purely practical, to keep it out of the way as she tended to her mother and her mother's house.

Mac was shocked at the sight of her: the shadows beneath her eyes gave her an air of death, and she'd lost weight. Then she was in his embrace, dishcloth abandoned on the floor, arms flung around his neck as though he was a grail she'd sought her whole life and found at last, and he knew she was still his same, wonderful Claire.

He held her close, sensing her exhaustion and despair. He didn't even try to kiss her – his love was too deep for that. Instead, he poured his strength out, nourishing her from his very soul, filling her up with the joy of being together once more. Why the hell had he let this go on so long?

A swipe on the shoulder gave him his answer. "Hey!" Mrs Conrad stood behind him, eyes like blood diamonds. "You might do that in New York, but here she's my daughter first, not your wife! Her duty's here, and if you still had a mother you'd know that."

The pain inflicted by her shocking words was almost unbearable: Mac had been distraught when his own mother died, just a few years after he and Claire were married, and this old witch knew it. But he held himself in check, unwilling to let himself down or give her the satisfaction of seeing his still fresh grief.

"Claire," he whispered, keeping his voice level and steady. "I want you to go and grab your stuff – whatever you want to take home – as fast as you can."

He felt her hesitate, and felt too her mother's malevolence, almost a physical thing in the narrow hallway. No wonder Claire hadn't been able to get away: she was baleful, this older woman, sucking the life out of all who came near her. But not Claire – not any more. "Go on," he said softly. "It's all right. I'm taking you home."

"Mom…"

"Claire!" Mac's voice was harder now. "Your mother's fine – I think we can all see that – she doesn't need you here any more."

Claire edged towards the stairs. As she reached the lowest, her mother fell. "Go on!" Mac barked. He hated talking to his wife this way, but it was almost as if she'd had a spell cast over her. He turned to Mrs Conrad: he had seen the deliberateness of her action. "Come on, Betty – up you get. No – don't fight me. That's it – hey, I said don't fight me! There – come on, let's get you sat down in the living room – you could walk to the door, you can walk across the hallway. Not so hard, huh?" He finally settled her in an easy chair and stood over her, smouldering with barely-controlled fury.

"I'll have you for assault!" she snapped.

Mac lost it: he pulled out his badge and waved it in her face. "You do that! See where it gets you! And don't you ever – _ever_ – say that Claire isn't my wife again! She is always – will always be – my wife. My – wife. Understand?" He stood up, trembling with rage.

If looks could kill, Mac would have fallen then and there, dead before he hit he floor. But – as a rule – they don't, and Claire's mother had to be content with merely ill-wishing her son-in-law. His face was closed, cold and hard: between them, he thought, Claire's husband and mother had made a fine mess of the last five weeks of her life.

Not any more.

* * *

"_You'll tell her with every gesture, every look. You won't be able to help yourself."_

Quinn's words sliced through him like razors: slick and sweet and deadly. He had found two seats on a flight to New York and he and Claire now sat at the back of business class – again upgraded because of Mac's badge – Claire's sleeping head on his arm, while he rested his cheek on her hair, feeling he had no right even to be breathing the same air, let alone touching her.

In the cab to the airport she had wanted to hold him, caress him, kiss him – but he had kept his distance, citing his fight with her mother and lack of sleep as the reasons he wasn't feeling himself. She had smiled a strange, knowing smile, and he'd known he'd have to confess. And what would happen then? To lose her – to lose her through his own stupid, fleeting betrayal – it would be more than he could bear. He couldn't go on without her, not like that – Quinn could have the job, the lab, the whole bloody lot – he wouldn't want to live any more.

Claire stirred against him, snuggling closer in a movement of trust that tore him apart, then stretching and sitting upright as she came back to consciousness. He thought, as he watched her, that even in her thin, pale cheeks, he had never seen a more beautiful human being. And this was the woman he had betrayed…

They drank their champagne and nibbled at the exotic cheeses the airline saw fit to provide them with. The food was tasteless in Mac's mouth, though Claire seemed to enjoy it. Finally, when they were perhaps thirty minutes out of La Guardia, she turned to him and took his hands, tightening her grip when he automatically tried to pull away.

"Mac. I know something's happened."

He went deathly cold. "I – nothing – I…"

"Look at me! Don't mess with me, Mac – I'm your wife and your best friend and something's eating you up inside. I want to know what, before we land."

He sighed desperately. In five weeks he'd forgotten how direct and blunt Claire could be. He turned and looked into her eyes. His stomach churned: he felt sick and weak and at that moment would have been willing to do anything rather than face this music. Except lose her – and that's what would happen if he didn't.

His mind was in turmoil. His crass, wavering stupidity had brought him here: no-one else could take the blame, no-one could shoulder this burden – yet now he had to share it with the woman he loved, and weigh her down with the knowledge of his betrayal. He wished he'd never come – wished he'd left her to Betty's selfishness. At least then she wouldn't have to know. He wished he was standing on the Washington Bridge so he could clamber up between the railings and launch himself into watery oblivion. He wished he'd never been born.

He wished Claire had married someone who deserved her.

He closed his eyes: he couldn't bear to look at her lovely, gentle face. It was only words: their meaning would come out anyhow – and Claire deserved to hear the words. But he couldn't watch her do it. He gripped her hands. "Quinn Shelby," he said in a voice as flat as week-old beer, and as lifeless. "I – I kissed Quinn Shelby." He took a breath, still not looking at her. "I went to her apartment – it was late at night and she asked me to walk her home – and I kissed her."

He breathed raggedly: he knew he was a coward and a liar and a fool, and now Claire knew it too.

There was a long silence: so long, that eventually he opened his eyes, wondering if Claire had heard. She hadn't moved: her face was streaked with tears that she had shed without a sound, but she still had hold of his hands. "Claire? I'm sorry. I – there's no excuse. I love you – I love you beyond anything – please, please forgive me. I don't deserve – I'll wait as long as it takes – a whole lifetime – all I ask is that you try, some day, to forgive me."

She breathed unevenly, and he waited. Then, as if no words were adequate, she caught him to her and hugged him as though she was never going to let go.

"Claire – can you forgive me? Please? I'll do…"

"Anything. Yes, I know." She nuzzled his hair. "Mac, I don't think we should discuss this any more. I think we should put it behind us – completely, behind us – and never talk of it again."

"What?"

She looked at him with clear, cool eyes. "I left you, Mac – I abandoned my husband to work, and loneliness, and strain, because it was easier to go half way across the country and look after my mother. What do you want me to do – forgive you for being human?"

"What I did was wrong."

"Ditto." She shook her head, and her curls stood out like halo around her. "No-one's perfect – not even you, though I know you'd like to be." She stroked his face, and he trembled at her touch. "You're mine, Mac Taylor. You may wander occasionally – no, you may do, trust me on that – but you're mine, and always will be. I will never stop loving you – even if I die tomorrow, I'll never stop loving you."

"Claire! Don't…"

She smiled. "Just being with you – puts the whole world right again. It never happened, Mac – it never happened. And I'll never leave you again – I promise."

He couldn't see her for tears, so when he felt her lips on his, he was surprised. Then he felt the urgency behind her touch – her need to reaffirm all that they were to each other – and fell into her kiss with a desperation and passion that were a world away from anything Quinn could offer.

"I love you," he mumbled, when he could speak. "Only you – always – always..."

"I know. Take me home, Mac. Take me home and love me."

He did.

* * *

He got his promotion: Quinn got hers too, but he got the lab, and a brand new office, with plenty of room for photographs of Claire. He never said a word about what had happened, judging that his wife's approach was the best one, and since he and Quinn were rarely alone save when surrounded by reminders of Claire, she found no opportunity to repeat her behaviour.

He talked about Claire often – even invited her to the lab once or twice – and sometimes asked Stella, who had been promoted with him, to their house for dinner or drinks or just a chat over coffee. He knew Quinn suspected that something was going on between them, and took a perverse pleasure in never denying it, but in reality he had the satisfaction of seeing his wife and his colleague – whom he came to respect more each day for her stubbornness, passion and integrity – become deep and loving friends.

He never extended the courtesy to Quinn, and was relieved when, late in 2000, she requested a transfer to Jersey. He would have preferred Alaska, but Jersey would do. He even found it in himself to wish her good luck as she strode out of the lab, on her final day, to the downtown bar where everyone had gathered to say farewell. She didn't ask if he would be there, and he wasn't.

And a year later, after the devastating events of 2001, he reaped the rewards of Stella and Claire's friendship as the younger woman strove to comfort him: after his wife's death, he was never without arms to hold him, although he was always scrupulously careful never to step over that terrible, invisible line.

He had had a narrow escape, and he was never going to mess up again.

* * *

_April 2008_

Looking at Quinn now, the memories cascaded through Mac's mind as if they had been formed yesterday. He was lucky, he knew, that his stupidity hadn't cost him his wife: he wasn't going to risk being drawn into this woman's web a second time, even though now he had no wife to lose. He had never known exactly what had gone through Claire's mind either during the flight or afterwards: but she was true to her word, and they never spoke of his 'mistake' again. Not once, in the three years of life she had left, did Mac ever forget what he had done: and not once did Claire ever give him cause to remember.

He could not imagine Quinn being as kind: she always had to have the last word – always had to make her point and score the final goal. Then and now.

"You know," she said, "I've thought about this moment so many times: about what I would say to you when I finally got the chance. And here I am, and all I keep thinking is, _Does he ever wonder 'what if?'_"

Mac looked at her in astonishment. She had done her best to seduce him, to tear him from a woman she knew he loved – and she still wondered 'what if?' Her lack of understanding, not only of him but of those who commit their lives to others, was overwhelming, and for a moment he felt genuinely sorry for her: Claire might no longer be here, but no-one could take away what they'd had, and it was something Quinn had never known.

The thought made his response – as he stood to answer an interruption – softer than it might have been. Pulling on his jacket, he faced her and tried to make his voice gentle. "Quinn, no matter how good they are…" he paused, remembering that, for a moment, they had been good – terrifyingly, dangerously good – "some memories need to be forgotten." He had to put a stop to this: she had to move on, once and for all.

Her face closed. "I get it," she said. She was clearly in pain.

He was sorry: if it had lasted this long, her affection for him was obviously heartfelt. Perhaps, if they'd met before he'd known Claire, something good would have come of it, but he doubted it. She did not have the generosity of spirit that a man like Mac sought, and that Claire had possessed in abundance.

He watched her leave his office with a mixture of regret and relief. He felt a sharp need for loving arms to hold him – loving hands to touch him – but knew that no such joy was available to him now. Stella would hold him, as a friend, if he went to her: but he had stopped himself from allowing her to become anything else a long time ago, and if he couldn't have her love and love her in return, he didn't want her to pretend. He wasn't a man who settled for second best.

He was better off alone than trapped in a web, unable to escape, waiting for freedom that would never come. _The female of the species_, he caught himself thinking.

_The female of the species is more deadly than the male._

_The End_


End file.
